Starting FRESH
by Gayle Cara Maxwell
Summary: I was never a Freshie-Fic reader so this "challenge' piqued my interest. Freshies are one of the most interesting and inventive concepts of the Moonlight-verse. And although lots of really wonderful stories have already been written about them, there's always room for more. This is my story about those fascinating people who willingly offer their blood to vampires.


**STARTING FRESH**

- - - - - - - - -

_Starting fresh_, what did that mean when my last years had been spent within the embrace of my employer?

That I would accept employment only when the job didn't make demands on my diet, nights and weekends.

That I would give up my discrimination for the limo rides and five star dinners with a coterie of men who played my body for their meal, my blood?

The "_fresh start" _irony wasn't lost with me. When I disconnected the cell phone listed on Josef's registry I knew I'd "miss" the calls. He took my resignation with a rakish raise of his brow and a slow pursing of his lips. "Everyone knows their time, Lucy." He understood no cash or promises would extend my time, I wasn't even fishing for a "bite" to end it all or a turning. It was a "let's say g'dbye" moment as I signed the last line of the resignation contract.

I'd miss this.

It was a cheaper high than riding my Harley at breakneck speed up Mulholland Drive or plunging into the grip of gravity skydiving. In fact it was a lucrative high; I'd watch the bank deposits mount as I tried to remember the names of undead I had fed. I recalled their faces, their bites, their predilections. More frequently, _I recollected the man I didn't feed._

At the outset I thought him haughty, some sort of an elitist. I overheard murmurs; he was a misplaced soul, initially turned against his will. Stories spread; there was something about a kidnapping and a child and his murdering his wife, his sire.

I pitied him, he had the same sort of eating disorder that drove girls to live on protein or energy drinks. That vamp couldn't come to grips with his "food source"; Josef's sotto vocce comment hadn't been lost on me. I always enjoyed the place between light and dark after I had fed them something they could only take from us.

Slip sliding away, thru my half slit eye lids I'd watch him, all curled hair on the collar of his black duster. I christened him the "Spectator" as he hung to the shadow of the room, wordlessly, elegantly slipping toward the decanter to pour a glass of A+. He'd watch the sinuous feedings, turning his back to the displays he thought to be too unrestricted or too lascivious. I could see in his timeworn eyes he knew that thrill, yet he kept his control ratcheted tightly like the lines on a bound up spinnaker. I'd float in the space between and grip the music, the background moans free-falling to the moment when I'd flutter to a dreamless sleep.

Tonight it had been different, there were dreams…..curiosities run wild within the confines of my blood short body. As I lay there in my bite induced euphoria I scrutinized his looks, how had this undead example of an eating disorder come to be? Did he look like a murderer?

There were urban myths, there were whispers shared in the showers after the "banquets". Then I gleaned enough from the offhand murmurs to understand he was a changed man, galvanized as if he had survived the flames he had inflicted on his wife. Yes, his wife.

I never clutched at the fantasy that I would be the one to bring Mick around; I had seen many a wild child parade flesh and temptation under his aquiline nose. Those hazel eyes of his never blinked, his hands steady on the tumbler of single malt and A+ all the while Josef chided his taste in blood and Mick's manner of consuming it.

So that last night I just enjoyed the view, Josef "_saw me out" _by being my "_last supper",_ that sublime bite of his, those whiskey brown eyes boring into mine. All that warmth, all his tenderness to escort me across to something akin to being a former Playboy Bunny, although I knew he treated each of us equally. Josef loved each of us individually yet treated us with an equanimity I'd be leaving when I drove off in the morning.

When the sky morphed from jet blue to purple and pink the music waned and the crowd of eager imbibers had thinned I rousted out of my reverie and began pulling myself together, checking my skirt, sliding back into my sling back heels.

"Would you need a hand?" the bass of his voice stunned me, I'd never heard him speak.

"I'm good" I licked at my dry lips and blinked further awake to register his nod and his smile.

"Josef tells me this was your swan song" he propped a lean hip against the overstuffed arm of the sofa and his eyes twinkled.

"Indeed it was, now I'm headed for a quiet life of graduate school" Why did I have the urge to tell this stranger my life's plans?

"I salute you, I got out of the Army and couldn't hack the GI Bill, good for you" Mick's voice seemed to fall softly, very close to my ears as he extended his hand. My fingers lightly wound over his as I made a small stretch to pull off the sofa and head out. I couldn't bring myself to shower and change this morning, couldn't listen to the girls' "good-byes", if I could slip out it would be as if I never quit.

"You aren't headed to spa?" He tilted his head toward the wooden door where Freshies entered and exited.

"Nah, it's too final, can't do it" Was I sounding regretful already?

"You'll miss breakfast" Mick's eyes twinkled as he gestured a bite, then pursed his lips.

"I've been compensated, I'm the last one here to miss a meal" I patted my size 10 hip as I regarded the waning stock of size 4 Freshies.

Mick nodded and grinned at me again. Nervously I stroked back my auburn hair into my hair clip and wondered why he was striking up a conversation at dawn.

"Need a lift?" There was "_Mr. I-Don't-Bite"_ offering a retired Freshie a ride home. Hey, 2001 was turning into a banner year. "I'm buying breakfast" Mick politely offered and I bit my tongue.

"I've got my bike" I held out the Harley key.

"That's your Harley Springer Softail?" he was incredulous, standing there hands on hips with an ironic smile on his face, "You know your bike is modeled after the 48' Panhead?"

"I got it because the crossover exhaust pipes and the dual fishtail mufflers were boss" I moved toward the front door as he followed, surely drawn by the chrome of my Harley. He pushed open the door and I gave him a look.

"Can't I open a door for a lady?" So self-effacing, so smooth, I smiled and nodded at him as he followed me as I dug in the fringed saddlebag for my chaps and my boots and he struck a silent pose in the dawning light while I slid on a pair of jeans under my skirt and slipped out of the skirt and heels.

"You like to watch ladies dress?" I peered over my shoulder with a smirk, pulling my chaps and buckling them on tight.

"I prefer they undress, but things are tough all over" Mick chuckled back at me as he played with his car keys and slipped on his sunglasses. By all standards, he was the definition of cool.

I leaned against all 700 pounds of my motorcycle while I buckled up my boots and shook my head at him, "You do not strike me as someone in a dry spell"

"Well, it's a sorry come-on, it's just your bike does remind me of the 48' and some night I'd like to go for a ride" Mick made childish cycle sounds and gestures as he circled the steel horse in admiration.

"Mick, you know I'm not your type", I was an O+ and he was a dyed in the wool A+ kind of guy.

I must have given him a peculiar look, he took me by wonder, and he sounded earnest "Hey, Lucy, I know you're out of the business, this would just be a ride…." By his tone of voice, he sincere and it almost sounded like his request for a date, almost human.

I flipped my helmet on my head and pulled my business card from the handlebar bag, "Call me, I promise to answer". Mick took the card and drove it down into his duster breast pocket then gave me a "tip of the hat" gesture and walked to his vintage Benz.

Time passed and I never got that call, the idea of grad school morphed into Law School and I slid right into a peach of a job with the LA District Attorney's Office as an ADA working with Sex Crimes and Stalkers. The Harley got parked while I developed a taste for vintage Mercedes, never found a 65' Cabriolet that I could afford, although I always remembered who had one.

I found a noisy 93' Turbo Diesel and developed a reputation for flying solo. Then in the fall of 2007 my past came rushing back to me.

"Hey, Lindsey, whatever happened to that Professor, Christian…..what's his name?" I was sitting nearly knee to knee with ADA Josh Lindsey in his office while we were going over a stack of loose ends.

"Don't even ask" Josh passed a flat hand over the folder, his distaste registered on his face.

"Well, that does it, you say don't ask and that makes me have to" I sat back, sticking the pen into my French twist, ready for the tale. My eyes roved over the credenza t framed picture of Josh and a perky blond, and then I caught the sight of his screen-saver – the very same perky blonde with a reporter's microphone in her hand at several story sights. That was Beth Turner; his Beth was the face of Buzzwire.

"Naw, that's a story best laid out over burgers and beer." His Pepsodent smile and prince charming good looks couldn't hide his sneer, so I had to ask for more.

"Josh, I've got a Pilates class tonight so you'll just have to share right here, right now…..otherwise I'll call Carl Davis and he'll tip on you like a Scout's canoe."

Josh snapped the file out of my hands and dropped it on the credenza behind him, "All I'll say is I surprised you haven't heard of some P.I. Mick St John" Josh's voice registered a high level of disgust.

I was waiting for the hit and he dropped his eyes, I had to prod, "As a P.I. or as a stalker?" I sat up, drew closer to him, I could smell sweat and Polo Triple Black Cologne.

"Once Beth" Josh hooked his thumb back at his desk portrait, "ran across that guy, screwed up seemed normal – that smiling bastard shows up everywhere she goes".

"Awh, Josh…" I shook my head as I rose to leave his office, "You got to keep your eyes wide open all the time….you never know, _she could be his type"._


End file.
